Ever Faithful
by Taricorim
Summary: The story of the boy who would become the Dark Lord, and the girl who loved and hated him from afar.
1. Sarabande

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Disclaimer: the wonderful, talented J. K. Rowling owns everything. Suing is bad.

Dedicated to my wonderful beta-readers, without whom this story would be very much unreadable.

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**EVER FAITHFUL**  
By Taricorim   
  
**Sarabande**

The Saint Paul's Orphanage for boys was a bare, dismal place. Its walls were of crumbling stone, and its windows were dark and oily. There was no grass, nor any semblance of plant life on the grounds; it was all of cement. A heavy wall marked the perimeter of the property, broken by only one set of wrought iron, barred gates. A circular drive led up to the doors on the inside.  
  
In the mornings, there would be no sign of life in that quarter, save for the periodic groan of machinery from within the depths of the building, and a lone light in the lower right window. In the afternoons, always, the children would be let out to roam the grounds.  
  
The first time that I had dared to look into the gates, I was appalled. The children had been as ghosts, floating about on thin, twig-like limbs and shifts of rags; very rarely would there be play or laughter.  
  
_It is a place for spectres,_ I had thought, _not children._ For that was what they seemed: haunted, barely alive in this world. These could have been normal children, were they not so subverted and changed beyond recognition.   
  
Evidentially, _I_ had not received the worst end of the deal at Saint Helena.   
  
One boy - actually among the livelier of them - sat always near the gate, gazing at the outside world and in at his fellows with equal careful scrutiny. He was thin and bony beneath his rags, I could tell, and his face was gaunt. His hair was black and wavy, dull in the sunlight, its comparative bulk serving to exaggerate his lack of weight, ridiculing him. But it was his eyes that were most surprising - so vivid a blue that they were depthless, wells of sapphire and darkness, and at such a contrast with the rest of him that it was difficult to ignore them, peering out from within the shadows of his face.  
  
Every afternoon, when I walked past the orphanage, he would stare at me with those eyes, those blue eyes that somehow captured in them the light of stars and the fathomless deeps of the Seven Seas, until one day, against my better judgement, I approached him.  
  
"What is your name?" I asked him.  
  
He did not blink, did not react in any way, just continued to watch me with those depthless eyes, until, disgusted, I drew away and left.  
  
I did not look at him the next day, or the day after- just ignored him on my way from school.   
  
A fortnight after I first asked him that simple, simple question, as I was hurrying past St. Patrick's Orphanage, he spoke.   
  
"My name," he said, "is Tom Marvolo Riddle."  
  
I stopped in my tracks and turned. He was still staring at me, expressionless, so that I might have mistaken him for one mentally deficient had it not been for the thought that I heard behind those words, a fortnight of profound ponderance.  
  
I sat down beside him on the cement, the barred gates between us. "Why are you here?" I asked him.  
  
He stirred slightly, the first real movement that I had ever seen him make, and cocked his head. "My mother died giving birth to me," he said. "My father left her before I was born." He sneered a little at the mention of his father.  
  
"How old are you?" I asked.  
  
"Nine."  
  
I blinked at this. He had looked no older than six, though his eyes and movements thus far belied an experience far beyond his years. "I thought you were..." I trailed off uncomfortably.  
  
He seemed amused, though his expression did not change. "And you?" he asked.  
  
"Eight."  
  
"What is _your_ name?" he asked, almost mockingly. There was a hint of challenge in his voice, as if I should deign to prove myself to him. I rose; he stood with me.  
  
"I am Claire Katrine Gabrielle de la Valence, daughter of Alessandre and Katrine."  
  
My voice came out strong then, the words harsh and unmistakable. Several boys turned in the courtyard to look at us.  
  
He seemed surprised for an instant, but quickly hid it. An eyebrow rose slightly. He laughed, his voice surprisingly clear.  
  
I bristled at this. "It's French," I said defensively.  
  
"I know that," he said, traces of amusement lingering in his voice.  
  
There was a pregnant silence between us then, and several of the other boys crept closer in curiosity. From within the building a gong rang, its deep, brassy note reverberating through the air. Tom Riddle turned away, moving with a sluggishness contrasting his earlier, fluid grace. "Till next time, then," he said, and turned to look at me one last time. The challenge in those blue eyes was clear: you _will_ come back.  
  
I stood there at the gate long after all of the children had retreated back into the building, remembering my own confinement in the years previous. At last, when the sun drew low and the late-autumn wind blew over me, I shivered, and turned away.  
  
Michael and Doreen fussed over me when I arrived back at the house, worried that I was injured or had taken chill from the weather. I said nothing to them of Saint Patrick's Orphanage or of Tom Riddle.

~*~

For the next few months, I spent much of the money allotted to me on food and sweets, which I shared with Tom. We would sit and talk while we ate, ever with the closed gate of the orphanage between us, and I would take away the wrappings lest he is caught by the head of the orphanage, a certain Mr. Lass, who - from Tom's description - walked like a penguin and breathed like an asthmatic hippopotamus, with no more intelligence than either. He was a very shrewd boy.  
  
We talked about many things, past, present, and future. I told him of my real parents, of my old life, and of my own time in an orphanage. He listened patiently, offered condolences where I needed, and jests where appropriate. I found myself considering him, this strange boy with a stranger past, to be my friend.  
  
For his part, Tom told me very little of his history and his parentage beyond that first day. When he did speak of it, it would only be of his experiences in the orphanage - and even those, he did not tell all, but spoke lightly of the idiocy of the occupants. None of this, of course, explained why he and all the other boys of the orphanage bore the marks of starvation, or of long neglect and abuse. It did not explain why none of the boys showed vivacity or energy to even run, as children so often did. I was by no means a doctor, but it did not take one to know that the boy sitting across from me was not healthy.  
  
None of this did I voice to Tom, but left him to his own devices, that he should tell me of them if he chose. Nonetheless, I sensed that he knew of my concerns, and chose purposefully not to broach the subject.  
  
Then came a day when I ran from the store to the thick iron gates of the orphanage with a new tale to tell him of my day at the Academy, only to find the stretch of cement near the gate, where he always waited, empty. I hurried to the gate to peer inside, but found him not. I saw no boy of nine with hair as dark as the night and the blue eyes like pieces of the twilight sky stolen to rest, flashing with humour and a wisdom far beyond a boy of his age.  
  
I called to a nearby boy and asked him of Tom's whereabouts. He looked at me in surprise, his eyes widening in fear.  
  
"No, miss," he said, backing away slowly, "no."  
  
He turned and fled, leaving me very bewildered. I searched the dark, depthless windows as if they would yield clues, but found none. The other boys were now regarding me with wariness and barely guarded hostility. I turned and left the place. My hope was that Tom had found new parents, but wouldn't he have told me? Wouldn't the boy have known?  
  
It was only later that night, as I was preparing for sleep, that it occurred to me that perhaps the boy I had asked was not denying knowledge of Tom's whereabouts, but refusing to answer.

~*~

He was gone for three days. Each day, I continued to look for him, bringing him our customary fruits and sweets. Each day, he was not there, and the boys of his orphanage refused to reveal his whereabouts, but instead stayed far away from the gate, where I stood in waiting.  
  
On the fourth day, he came at last, sitting at the gate, his forehead pressed against his knees. I came up to him, food held in front of me almost as a shield.  
  
"Tom?" I called to him, questioning.  
  
He looked up, and I gasped aloud in horror, for I had forgotten how thin and emaciated he was before. In the months that I had known him, he had grown and gained weight, nourished by what I brought him everyday. But in the three days, he had once again been reduced to a spectre haunting the grounds of Saint Patrick's. He looked bruised, battered, his body broken. Gone was the fluid grace of his movements. Even his previously bright eyes were dimmed, a little.  
  
He took the food without speaking - out of hunger, I realised; he was starved - finishing the apples and the candyfloss quickly and wordlessly. When he was finished, he stood up and looked me in the eye.  
  
"Do not come again, Claire," he said, and turned away stiffly. He always said my name in the manner - in a French accent, as I had first said it to him, but with a distinct Sussex undertone, the roots of which I would never know.  
  
I watched him, studied his profile from the back. He was standing only 20cm away from me - so close that I could easily have reached out and touched him, should I have chosen to do so. But the tension in those thin shoulders forbade it.  
  
I said then the only thing that I could think to say, "why?"  
  
He laughed mirthlessly, and turned to face me. In the dimness of the late-afternoon sun, his face took on a harsher cast to it, the bones of his skull jutting out sharply from beneath his skin. His eyes flashed with reflected light. If I didn't know better, I would have thought him sinister. There was a strange expression on his face.  
  
He regarded me carefully for a long moment.  
  
"Tom," I began, "--"  
  
"No."  
  
His voice was firm and clear ringing. I blinked in surprise, and opened my mouth to speak. But he had already turned away.

~*~

I did not return after that. Every afternoon, I passed Saint Patrick's Orphanage, and every afternoon, he would sit there in front of the gate, gazing out at me with careful scrutiny. Not once did I pause and speak to him, nor did he once call out to me.  
  
Summer came, and with it, blessed warmth and time. I spent many hours at the market by myself, sitting before the fiddler with the music of angels. I gave him every spare coin I could muster, and he smiled and played for me in turn.  
  
Once, as the sunset drew near and vendors were preparing to close their stalls for the day, the fiddler came forward, his instrument secured under his arm.  
  
"The days grow shorter," he said. His voice was soft and low, and his tone light. His face was turned to the setting sun.  
  
I nodded.  
  
"what is your name?"  
  
I told him.   
  
He seemed surprised, his eye turned sharply to my face. A finger twitched slightly on the wooden bow handle. His face, normally pleasant, became shrewd. I found myself wondering nervously whether he found me acceptable.   
  
Then he smiled, and in that smile I found comfort and belonging. His teeth gleamed white in the light. "Ah," he said, "the Lady Katherine's daughter."   
  
I started. "You knew my mother?"  
  
"We were acquainted, yes." He waved his hand dismissively.  
  
I waited, but he offered no word of explanation. "How did you know her?"  
  
"I knew her when I was in Paris as a travelling performer. But I notice, mademoiselle, that you refer to her in the past tense. Why? I would hate to believe that some misfortune might have befallen her."  
  
I tensed. "She's dead."  
  
"That is sad news. How long?"  
  
"Four years."  
  
He bowed his head. "And what of Monseigneur de la Valence?"  
  
"Dead also."  
  
"I am sorry," he said, and turned away, lost in his past. The red of the sun silhouetted him against the barren streets of London south. I lowered my gaze and began the trek back home.  
  
That night, for the first time in many months, I dreamt of my parents and of my childhood in the manse. But there were two new figures in my dreams: the mysterious fiddler of my mother's past, and Tom Marvolo Riddle.  
  
I woke to the taste of salty tears upon my lips.

~*~

I continued to return to the fiddler during the rest of the summer, and gave him coins. He played, much as he had before, but I thought that there may have been a note of dejection in his stance that was not there before, and the notes of his songs became slower and lost some of their original joy. I did not speak to him when I listened, or even after, and he did not look at me.  
  
At last, when the early autumn wind blew over us, and the air lost its languid warmth, when the chirp of crickets at night lessened to a low, indiscernible croak, and I knew that I would be returning to Lawrence, the fiddler came up to me one day at sunset, after all others had left. From a corner he withdrew a case, its once rich red leather now worn, frayed and smoothed with the passage of time. In this, he reverently placed his violin, trailing a loving finger along its polished sides, tracing the curved "S" of the spirit holes. The strings hummed lightly under his hand. The bow, too, he placed in its slot, secure against the black velvet lining. He closed the case and stood, looking down at it.  
  
"A Stravinsky," the fiddler whispered. "Finest intrument every made." He looked up, his voice gaining strength. "It is time for me to part ways, and move on." He held out the case, and its precious contents, to me. "May it serve you as well as it served your mother, and me."  
  
I shook my head, understanding taking over, and opened my mouth to reject the gift, but he interrupted me.  
  
"No." He pressed the handle into my hands. "Your mother would want you to have this. It was hers, once." He smiled at me through his tears - and such tears he had! It was heart wrenching; I do not think that I could ever forget that sight, the sight of a grown man torn apart with grief and woe.  
  
"You do look so much like Katrine."  
  
Before I could move, or say another word, he was gone.  
  
Two days later, the body of an unidentified male, aged in his late twenties, was discovered at the bottom of a ravine in south-western London.

~*~

Michael and Doreen were quite surprised when I arrived at home with a full-sized violin in tow, for they recognised quality when they saw it, and such an instrument could not have come at a low price.  
  
At first, they were adamant that I return it, but it would be of no use. I knew, beyond a doubt, that the fiddler would not be back. Later, after much questioning and repetition, they accepted. It was a gift from one who used to know my mother, they reasoned, of course I would wish to keep it.  
  
I began to experiment with it, running back at once from the Academy to my violin. My studies suffered - but only slightly; bringing honour to my benefactors was still my foremost goal.  
  
A new figure had come to dominate my dreams. Rarely did I see my parents. Instead, a young man with the music of angels haunted me, his face ever a mask of despair, his very being an embodiment of secrets lost forever.  
  
October came and went, and with it, my birthday. The Collingsworths gave me a book of music scores. I did not understand the symbols, nor did I know the words - _animato, maestoso, lacrimoso_ - but I would sit for hours with it, flipping through the pages. Then, I would set the book aside - gently, oh so gently - and pick up the violin, and practise. I had watched the fiddler enough times to know basic bowing, fingering, and _pizzicato_ technique, but always, my music lacked the vitality that his music had had, before it was destroyed.  
  
Doreen would listen sometimes, and applaud me on my prowess. She was always proud of me, no matter what I did - they both were. But I coveted true music, music that I could not have. I began seeking out other violinists, but none of them had the skill or the joy for music that the fiddler had.  
  
I began listening to the radio in the kitchen. It would be on when I played, when I studied - at all times when I was in the house, save when Mike needed it. The music was my haven.  
  
Then came a day in mid-summer of my tenth year, only months from my eleventh birthday. I was practising in the sitting room when Doreen bustled in, her face red with the heat of working for hours before the furnace. In her hand she held several letters, one of which she handed to me.  
  
"To: Miss C. de la Valence," it proclaimed in bold, green letters. I stared at it in confusion, at the unfamiliar crest in one corner.  
  
I opened the envelope to read the two sheets of paper inside.  
  
_Dear Miss de la Valence,  
  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
  
The term begins on 1 September. We expect your owl no later than 31 July.  
  
Yours Sincerely,  
  
Albus Dumbledore  
Deputy Headmaster_  
  
I dropped the letter and stood up.  
  
"Doreen?"

~~~~~

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Criticism is quite appreciated. Next chapter: the mandatory shopping trips, the loffly narrator is integrated into the Wizarding World, and finds it... interesting. Unexpected encounters abound.  
  
A pretty, shiny blue ribbon goes out to the person(s) with the most critical review. 


	2. Prelude

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Disclaimer: Riddle belongs to Rowling.

A/N: dedicated to the good people of E.V.I.L., from whom this plot bunny came. Long live white, fuzzy, evil teddy bears!

  
  


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**EVER FAITHFUL**  
By Taricorim   
  
**Prologue**

So long as I live, I will always love him. And if I die, I will wait for him in the green, grassy fields under the perpetually bright sky, in the world far beyond.  
  
I am his. Perhaps I do not wish it so, but I am his.  
  
How quickly does life pass one's eyes! I close my eyes now, but I cannot remember my childhood. I cannot remember my mother's face. There is nothing but pain in recalling the past. It is in the present that we much vest our attentions, the present and the future.  
  
My life begins and ends with each word he utters, each smile that he passes me. And yet, I despise him. I feel his lies and deceits; I smell his falseness, heavy and sour as the taste of warm bile on my tongue. I hear his words, crawling to rest inside my mind, poison coated with sugar, seeds waiting to flower. I see his face, morphing day by day into a hideous, unrecognisable beast, reeking of the putrefaction of his soul. I change with him.  
  
It is a fine line between hate and love, he had told me once. I laugh now at the irony of his words. He had sought to change me, and he succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.  
  
Laughter brings me no joy. He has taken it away, and kept it for his own.  
  
I am Claire Katrine Gabrielle de la Valence. This is my story.

~~~~~

**EVER FAITHFUL**  
By Taricorim   
  
**Prelude**

My childhood ended on the day I turned five years old.

My first years were happy; I lived in a large mansion in the heart of London, on an estate ringed with rose gardens. My father was a respectable figure, a capable businessman, and a loving parent. My mother was an heiress; her father was a wealthy French aristocrat who, upon his death, bequeathed most of his money and belongings to his only daughter.

As for myself, I was raised as an only child. My elder brother died merely three hours after his birth, I was told.

My parents doted on me, that much I remembered. They lavished their affections upon me with no restraint. From a young age, I was pampered with toys, clothes, sweets, and servants. They called me "princess." Every autumn, they would hold a magnificent ball in honour of my birthday. I remember shrieking with surprise and joy as I opened the gifts... a doll of porcelain, with satin robes and buttons of ivory, a trinket for true royalty. A gilded, leather-bound storybook with inks of all shades shimmering on the pages. Yes, birthdays were always festive in our manor.

It was on the fifth such occasion that my luck and happiness had deserted me. Maman was to come from Bath, where she was visiting with her old friends. In the mean time, preparations were are whirlwind of fever and craze.

I remember a newly hired maid, only three years older than I, and a freshly made, azure gown of silk and chiffon, hemmed with gold and silver. Papa had gazed upon me with pride, and swept me up in his warm, strong arms. My friends - all girls born of the same high lineage - had been envious, but kind, laughing as they ran from carriages drawn by tall, dazzling steeds, their parents pausing at the door to exchange brief pleasantries with my father.

But maman was not there.

The celebrations continued deep into the evening, until the sky was a profound blue, littered with white, white stars, and the moon shone down upon us, suffusing the world with its cool gaze. The great atrium was littered with food and bits of coloured paper.

Still, she did not come.

Deep into the evening, long after my eyes had begun to ache with fatigue, and most of the guests had left the property, properly impressed, M. Argène, the butler, led a tall, uniformed man into the house.

It would not be until the next morning that I would find out the news.

Katrine Marie Isabelle Montagne de la Valence, beloved mother and wife, was dead.

~*~

My father, who had never, by any standards, been a weak man, was devastated. For a month after the initial shock, he refused to leave his rooms. Food was brought to him, but it was seldom touched.

At the end of his seclusion, he came forth a changed man. No longer confident and charismatic, he rarely smiled or talked. Never was his deep, infectious laugh heard again in the manor. His face grew gaunt and haunted. He walked with a slow, hesitating step, carrying barely a regard for his safety and surroundings. He took to drinking, immersing himself in the filth of taverns and foul street men. He never spoke to me save out of necessity. More and more often, he did not come home at night. The light left his eyes forever.

Two months later, Alessandre Rys de la Valence was killed.

~*~

The crown seized all of my possessions. Who was there to argue? I had no living relations, as far as I knew, and none came forward to claim me. I cried silently as they shipped away my toys, my gowns. I retained only the one doll of porcelain, satin, and ivory, my sole comfort in all the world.

The manor was closed to me. I was placed in the Saint Helena Orphanage for girls. The Mother Henrietta of the orphanage was a stern faced woman with steel-grey hair, grey eyes, and a tall stature. A word issued from those thin, strained lips was almost worse than a crack from her whip. The sisters were little better - demanding, pitiless, sharp and biting.

On the first day, my doll was taken from me to be sold at a market. I was issued a reprimand for crying, a gesture of "pity" for my first day that I was not beaten, or sentenced to clean the kitchens alone. I was led around the grounds and shown the fundamentals of life in Saint Helena.

It was a dull, drab building, with dimly lit corridors and bare walls. The floor was of cement, cold and unyielding to the touch. Dormitories were nothing more than a large, rectangular room lined with cots, each of them thin and hard. The draperies were of heavy, brown wool, the windows high on the walls - more for conventional purposes than light or air.

That night, I cried for the first time since my father's death, sobbing quietly into the coarse, starchy sheets, praying that no one would hear me and come to punish me for my insolence, but unable to stop.

That room would be my home for two long years.

The days were long at St. Helena's, filled with work and mindless past-times designed for the sole purpose of distracting us. What little freedom we had was quickly deterred by the watchful sisters. Beatings were frequent, and often based on little more than a careless accident, an inopportune word, or simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The work was tedious: weaving, embroidery, cleaning.... If we were lucky, we were chosen to cook for the day.

But if the days were long, the nights were longer still. For it was during the nights that our ghosts were left to roam free. Memories haunted us. It was not at all unusual to wake, screaming from nightmares, in the dead of the night, only to be hushed - sometimes forcibly - by neighbours, fearing Mother Henrietta's strap.

Other times, I would lie awake at night, weeping for my lost life and my parents, stifling my sobs in the hard, scratchy pillowcase, finding comfort in my own tears. Memories are relentless; they never leave.

More than once, I awoke feeling the soft whispers of my late mother, and her hands on my brow, offering solace, or the scratchy stubble of my father as he bent to kiss my cheek. I would find my pillows wet with tears of mingled joy and sadness. But the mornings that followed would always bring a hint of hope.

I do not remember much of my time in the Saint Helena Orphanage, and for that I am grateful. After a time, the pain and work simply blended together, a stone sitting in the back of my mind, resistant. I came out of the orphanage bearing few physical scars - the beatings seldom breached skin - but what I do remember of it, I shall never forget.

~*~

My mother's birthday was on the ninth of February. Preparations habitually began weeks prior to the celebration, back when I was still a child, blissfully ignorant of the world around me.

On the morning of the ninth, she would float down the grand staircase, resplendent in a gown of chiffon decked with rhinestones, her eyes alight with love and joy. I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful creature to ever walk this planet, delicate as a dove, yet resilient as a diamond.

She was beautiful, my mother - even her worst enemies admitted that, and there were many; many who were jealous of my mother's fortune. Her eyes were a deep, clear blue, as pure as the heart of a flame. Her hair was a shower of gold, rippling to her waist, igniting when the light caught it just so. She was a creature of flame and light.

My father was just the opposite - dark as the night, with hair of ebony and eyes of coal.

On the ninth of February of my seventh year - my mother would have been twenty-six years that day, had she lived - a kindly, middle-aged couple entered the Saint Helena Orphanage for Girls, with the intent of adopting a child between five and seven years of age. A procession was quickly brought in: myself, and five others. Mother Henrietta personally introduced us.

~*~

The early morning sun slanted through the eastern windows, glancing briefly off of the dust motes dancing in the large, dim room. There were twenty of us there, all bent over our embroidery, squinting at the fine stitches woven in the tapestries. Sister Margaret sat in a chair at the door, nodding slightly in boredom. She was a jovial woman, slight and lenient compared to the others, but firm in her disciples. She was, perhaps, my favourite of the sisters - the only one to have remembered my birthday in October past.

Conversation was rare and hushed, most of us preferring to work than face possible punishment at the end of the day, when we had little result to show the demanding Mother, whose presence we had long since learnt to fear. But snatched words were better than no words, and life without some form of companionship is impossible, even in such a dismal place.

Beside me sat a girl one year older than I, by the name of Lara. She was soft spoken, and was the only semblance of a friend that I had in those days. Her father had deserted her family shortly after she was born, and her mother had passed away not long after. Between us, we found little use for words, merely content to draw strength from each other as we worked.

Sometimes, when I wake from tortured dreams deep at night, I would find her sitting on the floor beside my bed, offering silent comfort. She had a lovely smile; Sister Margeret loved her.

We wove together, exchanging a few rare words at long intervals. The work was particularly heavy that day, but not beyond us - yet.

At once, the door opened, and fresh streams of sunlight poured in. Some of us looked up, bedazzled. The weaving slowed. Sister Margeret woke with a start.

But the doorway was quickly darkened again. Mother Henrietta strode in wordlessly, her expression shrewd and calculating. "Catherine, Claire, Olivia, Lily, Anne, Lucinda, come with me."

I glanced involuntarily at the others who were named. What had we done? These were people I barely knew. Confusion wracked at me.

"Immediately!" she snapped, and we quickly abandoned our work to follow.

It quickly became clear that there was a prospect on the property. We were ordered to queue up for assessment, and to enter "as proper young ladies, and not as the unsightly fools you are." Naturally, this did very little for our confidence.

But the Collingsworths greeted our group with welcome. They looked upon us with kindness and acceptance. "Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Collingsworth, "what lovely children you are!"

And then she smiled at me.

Oh, what a lovely gift fate had brought to me! Providence smiled upon today, for here, at last, was the chance that I had sought for so long. My lost life would be rebuilt again, the damage repaired. No longer would the name de la Valence be muttered in distaste in the gutters of London, amid the lewd laughter of the wasted in the street-side taverns. I would build a new life for myself; I would regain the wealth and honour that had been lost. Those who had killed my parents (for, surely, they were both killed and did not die of natural causes) would pay.

All of this was a jumble in my seven-year-old mind as I stood amid my fellows, gazing shyly and with barely guarded surprise and wonder at Mrs. Collingsworth, whose bright smile was quickly transforming into an expression of bemusement. Mother Henrietta glowered at me.

A breeze blew by, cool and gentle, and ruffled my hair in soft affection. Its touch was calming on my brow, reminiscent of a long-ago warm touch and soft lips upon my skin. I could feel its smile.

Happy birthday, maman, I thought at it, my tears caught in my lashes.

I looked up at Doreen Collingsworth, and smiled.

~*~

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I remember talking animatedly with Mr. and Mrs. Collingsworth, but my mind was not there. It was as if some external force had taken over my body, that I was merely a spectator in my own life. The feeling stayed with me until, two days later, all paperwork finished and fees paid, I stepped out of that stonewashed building forever, never once with a backward glance. Just outside of the wrought-iron gates, a carriage waited for me. I climbed in, and settled myself, as the carriage began to lurch on the cobbled walked, to watch to the scene from the windows. The grey, cemented building shrank slowly.

I recalled Mother Henrietta's long, dour face rounding the corner to stand before me, her expression a mask of satisfaction at catching us in the midst of breaking some minor orphanage rule, and Sister's Margaret's face, melted with kindness, her mouth twitching upward in amusement. But most of all, I thought of Lara. I would never see her again. There was no point in denying that I had abandoned her. Her smile would forever be forgotten, lost in that den of darkness. My heart mourned for her; but I had no tears left to spill.

Farewell, my dearest friend, I thought into the sluggish air left in the wake of the carriage. May God be with you always.

The carriage topped a hill and began the descent, the setting sun bathing it in red. Saint Helena's disappeared from my view.

~*~

Michael and Doreen Collingsworth lived in a fair-sized house in southern London. It was nothing compared to my late parents' one-hectare estate, but I was more than happy with calling it home. There was a serenity there, a comfort that had nothing to do with the size of the house or the cost of its decorations - indeed, most of the rugs, covers, and quilts were hand-sewn or woven - but much more with the little things, the lumpy candles in the midst of the clusters of wildflowers on the table, the shadows cast by the carved trinkets hanging in the windows, the strategic placement of the chairs, so that even the farthest one could share in the heat from the hearth.

They had gone to great pains for me, I realised. A room was set out for me, its walls splashed with mauve, pink, and lavender. The curtains were of thin, flowery cotton; the two windows faced south, and the early-morning sunlight spilt through to warm the chilled air. At the centre of the room lay a bed - a real bed, after two years of sleeping on hardened and lumpy piles of blankets, all of them old and reeking with the stink of human misery.

I walked to the window and bathed in the sun's warmth. Outside, in the back, was a little garden of herbs and wildflowers. A small, white picket-fenced walk ran through it, curving and twisting its way around the garden. Birds flitted through the air.

It was a picture of urban domesticity, and I was a part of it, as much an element of the small, cosy household as the embroidered pillowcases and the alluring scent of freshly-baked bread wafting from the kitchens. I had a family again; I belonged somewhere.

Next came the not-so-pleasant task of determining my education and my future. A brief visit to the Lawrence Academy for Young Ladies and a few oral inquisitions later, I was enrolled into school. It was decided that I would live at home and walk the 45 minutes to and from school everyday.

Lawrence was a medium-sized school, with approximately 150 students. The girls there ranged in age from 6 to 15, all of them from middle-class backgrounds. For the most part, they tended to keep to themselves. Conversation was, at best, brief and kept between classes. The teachers were strict, but helpful.

I fitted in rather well there, as far as I was concerned. I had very few friends, and detached myself firmly from social circles. After all, there was only one reason that I was there: to be educated. That was what the Collingsworths wanted for me, and I would do what it took to follow their wishes. I owed to them my life.

I threw myself whole-heartedly into my studies. I was far behind others my age, but I tried - oh, how I tried! Can you imagine staying up late into the night to pour over texts and books at seven years of age? But that was what I did, by candlelight late into the night, quieting every ruffle of the papers lest I wake my benefactors. I was determined to prove myself and bring honour to those that had selflessly brought me in which I was alone in the world, with no one to call family, no home to call my own.

And bring honour I did. Within four months of my initiation into the school, I had risen to be in the top 5% of most of my classes. My teachers were pleasantly shocked; the Collingsworths were pleased. I could not have been more proud of myself.

By the time summer drew close and infused the land with its balmy, green breath, I was well established in the academy.

I spent most of the summer helping Doreen with the work, and accompanied her on the bi-weekly trips to the market. The market was a fascinating place, exuberant and noisy, filled with curious people and trinkets. I could spend hours there, exploring the stalls, gazing wistfully up at the dolls - so similar to the one that I had owned, when I was a child - and the glass figurines, at the colourful beads and bright, exotic cloths.

It was on one of these trips that I saw a man, about 30, at a corner. He was a musician, I saw, a fiddler. He handled the horsehair bow so deftly and freely that it seemed merely an extension of his body, the instrument plucking the notes from his mind. The jig strummed its way through the air to reach me, fastening onto every pore of my skin, seeping through my very being. I coveted that music; it was a glass of water in a sand-dry desert, a splash of colour in a grey world.

Maman, I recalled, played the violin, an obscure art learnt in her childhood in France. Some mornings, I would wake to her music, fresh and vibrant in the crisp, clean air. Other times, she would play in the audience hall, the notes echoing off of the walls and ceiling in the large chamber. I would sit, enraptured, before her, watching her every move, every play of the bow on the strings, every delicate touch of her hands on the fingerboard, the light gleaming off of the polished wood.

I stood at the outer edge of the circle surrounding the fiddler, watching for what seemed an eternity before Doreen came and dragged me away, scolding me for slipping away without notifying her. I apologised, but regretted it not one bit.

~*~

When school started again in September, I threw myself yet again into my studies, with somewhat less strict a concentration than before. I was still one of the best students in my year.

My birthday came and went with the turning of the leaves in the autumn. The ground lay covered with golden leaves, soft and spongy when I stepped on it, as though I were walking on clouds. Mr. and Mrs. Collingsworth brought me a book of fairy tales by Hans Christian Andersen. I smiled and thanked them, but my heart grieved for that one birthday, three years ago, when my world had ended. I still hadn't told them of my past - beyond the bare necessities: that my parents had died when I was five years old, and that I remembered little, if anything, of my past.

~*~

There was a good deal of travel every morning and afternoon, between my house and my school. Sometimes, I would dally on my way, for there were many stores on the roads, and I had not forgotten my old taste for sweets, despite two year's curb in Saint Helena's.

On the road to Lawrence Academy, there was always a block of silence, of waiting, on which sat a particularly large and grey building. I had never liked it much - it held an air of tastelessness - and so tried to avoid it if at all possible on my road to school. Of course, this was little aided by the fact that it was an orphanage, much like the one in which I spent two of the worst years of my life.

But it was here that I met him, and that my destiny would be changed forever.

~~~~~

__

Next chapter: Claire receives a little present, and meets a certain dark-haired boy who happens to hate his father. Hm... I wonder who that could be.


	3. Hufflepuff

_Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Suing is bad.   
  
A/N: May baskets of chocolate and goodfic find their way to **Kerosene** for being kind enough to make this chapter readable._   
  


~~~~~   
  
**EVER FAITHFUL**  
By Taricorim   
  
**Hufflepuff**

  
  
Professor Davis was a tall, slender woman of forty years, though one would not have given her more than thirty. Her hair was swept gracefully back from her face and pinned with clips of some unidentifiable jewel, which quite matched her twinkling blue eyes. Her appearance on my doorstep on the morning of 18 August tripled my beliefs in the wonder that surely was the wizarding world.   
  
"The Headmaster wished me to come and aid you in your preparations for Hogwarts. Have you bought your supplies yet?" she said, smiling and directing the question at both Doreen and me.   
  
"Er... no," I stammered. "I don't know where to find them."   
  
Indeed, I didn't. I had lived in London all my life. I knew most of the markets like the back of my hand, and could find my way easily through the south. Fruits? Bread? Those I could buy, and much more besides. But not once had I seen a shop that sold wands and cauldrons. And, of the three bookstores that I had visited, none of them carried _Magical Theory_ or _The Standard Book of Spells_.   
  
Professor Davis nodded sympathetically. "Well, no matter. That's what I'm here for. I'll be your Potions Mistress this year."   
  
So the three of us quitted the house, and, much to my surprise, we set off at a brisk pace down Glendale Road. Within five minutes we had reached a small, brightly lit store. I recognised it; I had stopped here on the road back from Lawrence almost daily for four months, and it was here that Doreen sent me every time we needed extra bread.   
  
"Janet!" said Mrs Hurst, the shop keep, warmly. "How are you?"   
  
Professor Davis nodded toward her. "On Hogwarts business right now," she said. "Can we use your fire? We need to get to Diagon Alley."   
  
"Of course." Mrs Hurst led us into the back of the shop. I stared in awe as she took out a long, slender wand, tapped a chest, and opened it to produce a small sac, which she handed to Professor Davis. "Leave it by the fire when you're done."   
  
"Thank you."   
  
Doreen and I followed Professor Davis and Mrs Hurst to the fireplace, where the former took a handful of glittering dark powder and cast it into the fire. The flames at once flared up into a sickening, bright green, taller than a man and just as wide. "Diagon Alley," she said, and stepped into the fireplace.   
  
There was a crack, and the fire briefly flared brighter. An unseen wind lifted Professor Davis's hair and whipped back her periwinkle robes. She began spinning, her feet lifting up from the burning wood, until she was but a blur hovering in the midst of the flames....   
  
And then she was gone. I stared, open-mouthed, at the fire, which was now burning calmly, all traces of green gone.   
  
Doreen eyed the bag mistrustfully, but took up a handful. When the fire roared up again for her, she stepped into it, flinching where the flames brushed at her skin. Her normally smooth voice was tight and high with fear when she spoke. "Diagon Alley." The fire whisked her away from me.   
  
"You're shaking like leaf, dear," said Mrs Hurst. "Are you cold?"   
  
I shook my head, noting numbly that she was right, that I was terrified. Whatever happened to plump fairy godmothers and Andersenian princesses with long, blonde hair and beautiful satin gowns?   
  
"Don't fret, it'll be easy. You saw them—just throw the Floo powder into the fire, and say 'Diagon Alley'."   
  
She shooed me toward the grate and offered me the bag. Hesitating, I reached in to take a pinch of the glittery powder.   
  
"Now, mind you speak loudly and clearly. You wouldn't want to come out at the wrong place."   
  
"Diagon Alley!" I said, casting the powder into the fire half-heartedly. The sad little flames roared again and leapt up in a whirl of green light. I drew back in shock.   
  
"Quick!" said Mrs Hurst.   
  
I closed my eyes and stepped in.   
  
It was the strangest sensation. The flames licked at my robes like a tongue of green wind. They burnt. They froze. They caressed. They hurt.   
  
It ended as abruptly as it had begun. I fell out from a dusty grate, coughing and sputtering, into a dark room. The dull wooden countertop and stools had certainly seen better days, and the barkeep was an old, though jovial enough, man wearing shabby grey robes. A sign in the window proclaimed this place to be "The Leaky Cauldron—London's best butterbeer since 1683."   
  
Unsurprisingly, at this time of day, the pub was quite empty. Most of the chairs were still stacked neatly against one wall. In fact, the only four people in the Leaky Cauldron were Doreen, the barman, me, a rather dour-looking customer sitting in a corner, and Professor Davis, who had stood up from her table when she saw me enter.   
  
"_Scourgify_," she said, and abruptly the dust and cinders disappeared from my clothes and skin. Doreen, evidentially, had just been given the same treatment, and, apart from being a bit off-colour, seemed otherwise fine. I extended a trembling finger to my blouse, half expecting the thread to fall apart. She pocketed her wand. "Three butterbeers, please," she said to the barkeep.   
  
Butterbeer turned out to be a warm, foaming, amber liquid that tasted of sugar and spices and cinnamon and chocolate all at the same time. It was ambrosial.   
  
While we drank, Professor Davis explained that the Leaky Cauldron was most famous as a gateway to Diagon Alley, the wizarding centre of London. "You'll find all you'll need here," she informed us happily.   
  
The barkeep came and took our mugs when we finished. Professor Davis rose. Doreen and I followed her through the pub and into a tiny courtyard, which was as shabby as the inside of the Leaky Cauldron. In front of us stood a brick wall.   
  
Professor Davis tapped it three times with her wand, then moved back and waited as the brick shuddered and melted away, leaving a hole that grew bigger and bigger until there was an archway slightly taller than Professor Davis in the wall. I stepped through, and found myself faced with the most amazing street that I had ever seen.   
  
It was narrow and winding, and the ground was paved with cobblestones, which were clean enough that they fairly gleamed in the sunlight. Even at this hour, the alley was filled with people—wizards—in robes of every colour imaginable, bartering for strange and exotic goods from the corners of the world. Within only minutes, I had developed a crick in my neck from craning it to absorb all the sights, and I was sure that no one understood how to "strain one's ears" until he had visited Diagon Alley.   
  
I looked over at Doreen. She seemed too shocked for words, her mouth open in awe. This was a rather unsettling change; she usually knew the right words to describe any occasion.   
  
It was true, however, that Diagon Alley might well have been indescribable. Indeed, the sights and sounds were so unlike the rest of London, the Leaky Cauldron included, that I was certain I had stepped into an altogether different world. This feeling stayed with me for all of that first day, and returned each summer I went back for my shopping.   
  
And yet, so entrancing was it, and so desperately I strained to capture all my senses within my memory, that I later remembered little of that street.   
  
I remembered a general sense of activity, noise, and colour—for Diagon Alley was very colourful, from the robes of black, blue, white, gold, orange, red, mauve, emerald, and every colour in between, to the shimmering, bright banners in the shop windows. I saw with a start that the banners were moving; the letters rearranged and transformed themselves to form words on the heavy cloth.   
  
The second thing that I remembered was people, masses of them. The queues spilt out of the stores and onto the cobblestone, queues of dwarves and midgets, giants and goblins, harridans, hags, troll men, and one who had suspiciously sharp teeth and red-rimmed eyes in the shadow of the ice cream parlour, licking a blood-red cone.   
  
At the alley entrance, Professor Davis halted as Doreen and I drank in our surroundings. "I always forget that Diagon Alley is so spectacular to first-time visitors." She shrugged, her mouth twisting into a wry grin. "I don't even remember my first trip here; my parents took me when I was one."   
  
We made our way through the masses. Professor Davis first led us to Gringotts, the wizard bank, where my money was changed into strange coins by a pair of goblins, one of whom had tufts of grey hair sprouting from his ears. "Muggles!" muttered the hairy-eared goblin in exasperation, after explaining that the little gold coins were Galleons, the silver were Sickles, and the bronze were Knuts.   
  
Thus I ran back outside, my little bag filled with wizard coins. Professor Davis laughed at my wide-eyed eagerness to begin my first exploration of the wizarding world.   
  
I was sorely tempted to spend all of my money at Flourish and Blotts (even Doreen wanted to relax her spendthrift ways), but restricted myself to my schoolbooks and a copy of _Hogwarts, A History._ Lawrence Academy's library, which I had never before found lacking, seemed pale and tiny in comparison. "You can find all of these books and many more at the Hogwarts library," Professor Davis assured me. "Hogwarts has the biggest collect of wizarding books in Europe, and the second biggest in the world—only Alexandria's is larger." I filed this piece of information away.   
  
At the Apothecary, we found my first-year Potions supplies: slimy, squirming worms; glittery, dark beetles with sharp black pincers; sun-dried skin of some reptile; herbs and fungi, pressed and dried, or preserved in a clear gel that evaded my fingers when I tried to touch it.   
  
Our fatigue had begun to catch up with us by this time (it was not yet noon). Doreen, especially, for whom childhood fables were half a lifetime away, was turning faintly green with prolonged shock. She put clammy hands to her forehead and said softly, "I need to sit down."   
  
Five minutes later, I paid for my purchases with six gold Galleons and eight Knuts. "You go ahead," said Professor Davis. "I need to buy some more supplies, myself."   
  
I crossed the little street to Madam Malkin's Robe Shop, which was run by a young, plump, kindly witch of about thirty years who carried in her arms three giant bolts of black fabric. Doreen sank gratefully onto a small, rickety wooden chair in the waiting area by the door.   
  
The little shop was dimly lit and altogether too hot for a warm August afternoon. The young witch—presumably Madam Malkin—led me to a short stool and bade me step on it. "Hogwarts?" she asked.   
  
"Yes."   
  
She plucked a tape measure from the trail of dozen or so various instruments that followed her and set it to work. It darted around my wrists, around my waist ("Raise your arms higher, dear"), and moved on to my legs, while Madam Malkin muttered measurements to herself under her breath.   
  
It was not an unpleasant respite from the insanity of Diagon Alley outside. Madam Malkin's Robe Shop was quiet. The warmth of the fire in the back wall was quickly making me drowsy.   
  
Having done its work, the tape measure returned to its fellows, hovering and humming like a swarm of angry bees. Madam Malkin retreated into the back room.   
  
A little bell at the top of the door rang, its note high and discordant. I winced.   
  
Enter a middle aged woman of about forty years and her daughter—my age, I decided, quite pretty, with long blonde braids, sparkling blue eyes, and a pleasant face. "But how does the hat know where to put me?" she was saying.   
  
The woman smiled rather tiredly. "It can read your thoughts. And it talks to you."   
  
"How?"   
  
"The four founders enchanted it to sort the students into the best house. Don't ask any more questions, now."   
  
The girl pouted and stepped onto a stool beside me, where Madam Malkin's tape measures set to work on her. She turned to me.   
  
"What's your name? Are you going to Hogwarts? Do you know what house you'll be in?" she said rapidly.   
  
"Claire," I said.   
  
"You're starting at Hogwarts, too, then?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Well, do you know what house you're going into? I'm sure I'll be in Hufflepuff, all my family's there—except my aunt Tilly, she's a Gryffindor. Though I'm sure Gryffindor would be great, too..."   
  
I began to tune her out. The girl seemed to be "sure" of everything.   
  
The heat in the shop, so comfortable before, began to grow rather stifling. Perhaps I had drunk too much hot butterbeer earlier in the Leaky Cauldron.   
  
Abruptly, I became aware that the girl had asked me a question. "Pardon?"   
  
"I asked if you know your house yet," she said, a tinge of impatience in her voice.   
  
"Er..."   
  
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Are you a Muggle? I've read about those! My second cousin is a Squib, and he married a Muggle when I was six. I went to their wedding. She seemed really nice."   
  
I watched her with bemusement, listening to an occasional word here and there. Despite her evident naïveté, I found myself liking her, though I was not sorry when Madam Malkin's return with my complete set of robes interrupted her in a long-winded description about the day her cat Javert defeated her neighbour Dorothy's dog.   
  
"Well, bye then," she said. "Maybe I'll see you on the train."   
  
Professor Davis had just finished paying for her own supplies when I left the robe shop, blinking in the noise and sudden sunlight. "What else have you got on your list?" she asked.   
  
"Cauldron," I read out. "Telescope, wand."   
  
Twenty minutes later, I was further weighed down with a standard pewter cauldron, a set of scales, and a brass telescope, and all that remained was to buy my magic wand, which, after seeing Professor Davis use hers, I was very eager to do.   
  
Ollivander's was the last shop in Diagon Alley proper, and was in fact so grungy that it was hardly distinguishable from the dark shops of Knockturn Alley ("unpleasant place," Professor Davis told me) just beyond it. The bell above the door rang an unearthly tone when I entered.   
  
This shop was old. Everything seemed to be layered in dust, dust and memories. Each grain held a single moment in time. The windows were layered in grime and oil. The room was scarcely furnished: a single counter took up the length of a wall, with an ancient wizard attending it. On the wall proper hung a sloppy shelf of long, thin boxes.   
  
"Welcome," said the shop keep—like his shop, even he seemed covered in dust, old and fragile. His birdlike eyes blinked down at me. "Here for your first wand?"   
  
I nodded.   
  
Ollivander drew out a tape measure similar to the one in Madam Malkin's Robe Shop. "What is your name?" he asked.   
  
"Claire de la Valence."   
  
The large, pale eyes blinked again; they seemed almost luminescent in the dimness of the shop. Silvery brows furrowed slightly.   
  
"At Ollivander's, each wand is hand crafted to ensure the utmost precision in performance. Ollivander wand cores are carefully selected; every wand core is a phoenix tail feather, a dragon heartstring, or a unicorn tail hair from a healthy animal. The wood is also carefully selected and treated—no two Ollivander wands are the same."   
  
It was probably a memorised and rehearsed speech, but I listened rapturously.   
  
"Hold out your wand hand," said Mr Ollivander.   
  
I did. The tape measure ran down my arm, as well as my fingers, knuckles, and the distance between my tendons.   
  
"Your left hand, please, Miss de la Valence."   
  
I raised that, too, and continued staring at the tape. Somehow, I couldn't bear to look up into Ollivander's eyes.   
  
I heard the sudden intake of breath. "Ah," he said. "A musician."   
  
"How did you know?"   
  
"The calluses on your fingers. Is it the violin that you play?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Good. Perhaps you will bring music back into magic."   
  
Surely he meant 'magic back into music'? Ollivander didn't elaborate, but instead furled up his tape measure and tucked it into a pocket. He turned and began rummaging through the shelves in the back.   
  
"Here, try this," he said, thrusting a long, thin, grey box into my hands. Inside the box, lying on the bare cardboard, was a single, slender piece of wood. I reached into the box and lifted the wand. It was smooth and dark brown, polished to a high sheen. "Mahogany and phoenix tail feather, 8 inches. Snappy. Wave it about, wave it about...."   
  
I obeyed, but almost immediately he grabbed the wand back. "No, no, that won't do," he muttered, dumping the wand unceremoniously to one side and pulling out five more boxes. "Here, ash and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, very flexible and good for Defense Against the Dark Arts." Then, just afterward, "No. Try this one: Rowan and unicorn tail hair, nine and a half inches. Willow and unicorn tail hair, thirteen inches. Holly and dragon heartstring, eleven inches," and so forth until Ollivander handed me my wand.   
  
I remember it perfectly, every gleam of the dim candlelight on the wood, long and slender, the exact shade of deep, reddish brown that was my violin under the bright sunlight during a warm afternoon practise. Ollivander had presented the box. "Maple and unicorn tail hair, ten and a half inches, whippy," he had said.   
  
I had brushed the wood with my fingertips.   
  
Abruptly, the air in the room shifted, and a tingle ran up my right arm. I felt as if my whole being were alight, as if I had tapped into an unspeakable wellspring of power.   
  
"Just wave it about," said Ollivander. I looked up; he looked smug, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his white, white lips—almost as if he had felt that same jubilant rush.   
  
At his encouragement, I picked up the wand. It was warm and singing with liveliness under my fingers. Focussing on the electricity running up and down my arm, I brought the wand down in an arc through the air. A shower of gold sparks burst forth from the wand tip.   
  
Ollivander was smiling fully now. Doreen clapped. Professor Davis laughed. "A very good wand, Miss de la Valence. It will take good care of you, should you allow it." He snatched the wand from my hands and wrapped it deftly.   
  
I paid for my wand, thanked him, and, cradling the box under my arm, left.   
  
"Well, now that we've got everything—oh, I almost forgot!" Professor Davis searched one fold of her cloak and came up with a grey envelope. "Your ticket. Be at King's Cross Station on the first of September, on platform nine and three quarters—it's just through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. The train leaves at 11 o'clock. It's all on the ticket."   
  
We reached the brick wall at the end of the cobblestone street. Professor Davis tapped it, and the archway reappeared.   
  
"I'll see you when term starts," she said as Doreen and I took up a handful each of Floo powder. "Owl me if you need anything."   
  
The next moment, my view of the inside of the Leaky Cauldron was whisked away in a maelstrom of green flames.   
  
~*~   
  
The rest of the summer passed in a blur of expectation, avidly reading my new books, randomly waving my wand (and feeling very foolish when nothing worked), and practising my violin. Nothing could turn my mind from the thought of Hogwarts, and my new world. If Professor Davis was any example, wizards must all be wondrous. So I finished packing my bags and slept with hope in my heart and a smile upon my lips, and I dreamt of the future.   
  
I woke before dawn on the morning of 1 September, and, finding it rather early to do anything but wait, sat and reaffirmed that I had everything I would need until June. By the time Doreen came to breakfast, yawning with fatigue, I was almost bursting with eagerness.   
  
After breakfast, I hugged Doreen tightly while promising to write, and I was off. I even managed not to cry.   
  
The car clanged to a noisy stop as the large clock over the train schedule was just reaching 10:30. Mike looked at my ticket strangely; nowhere on the schedule did it say "Hogwarts, 11:00, platform 9 and ¾."   
  
"Professor Davis said to go through the barrier between platform nine and platform ten," I said hesitantly.   
  
It was a solid wall of unpainted brick. I wheeled my trunk up to it and stopped, prodding at the wall with a finger.   
  
The next moment, I was sucked into the barrier and through the grey. I found myself sprawled on the ground, my trunks in a heap beside me.   
  
"Are you alright?" said a fair-haired boy of around 16 years.   
  
"Yes, fine," I said, blushing. I lowered my eyes and began gathering up the books that had spilt from one case.   
  
"Here," he said. He waved his wand, and the books flew neatly into my trunk.   
  
"Thank you."   
  
There was a small "pop" behind us, and Michael pushed through the barrier. "I saw you fall through," he said, looking around nervously, as if the steam engine might suddenly explode. "Well, if you're fine..." he handed me my violin case. "The train leaves in 10 minutes." He beamed at me.   
  
We stood in awkward silence. The fair-haired boy shrugged and headed to the train.   
  
"Well, your new school awaits."   
  
I stood up on my toes to kiss him on both cheeks. "See you around Christmas."   
  
He helped me pull my trunks up onto the train, then fell back.   
  
The train pulled out of the station with a shrill hoot and a puff of billowing, pearly smoke. I found an empty compartment and sat down to watch the scenery, still holding my violin. The leather handle, worn smooth and shiny with the years, felt comfortingly solid and familiar under my hands. Almost unconsciously, I opened the tarnished silver clasps.   
  
The polished wooden instrument inside had, over the past two years, grown as familiar to me as my own skin. My fingers curled automatically around the neck, poised over the ebony fingerboard in first position. I launched into a warm-up—a simple C minor arpeggio—stopping briefly to adjust the tuning on the E string.   
  
The landscape outside was flattening into rolling hills and country. I switched to an old tune, simple, quick. It was a French song. I remembered the words as I played, though they held little meaning. _Alouette, gentil alouette_....   
  
The door of the compartment slid open with a thud, and a boy peered inside. He was eleven years of age, medium height, with inky black hair and blue eyes that had seen far more than his age allowed. I nearly dropped my bow in shock. The song broke off with a sharp screech of the strings.   
  
"Hello, Claire," said Tom Riddle from the doorway.   
  


~~~~~

  
  
_A/N: Okay. I deserve to be flamed. I deserve to be berated and fixed by my thumbnails to a cement ceiling. Um. I vow never to make a false promise regarding projected update date again.   
  
But, yeah. _All_ readers get a nice, shiny blue ribbon for being so kind and patient. Yes, even **cl@m ch0wdah**. ::blows kisses::   
  
Next chapter: Riddle returns. Riddle talks. Everyone is sorted. Classes start. Taricorim gets to make war rants under the pretense of writing fiction._


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